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discover the news, Mr van der Merwe?’
    ‘After the incident on Wednesday night, I was worried about her. They were threatening her . . . Both of us . . . And, when she didn’t answer her cell-phone this morning and then she didn’t arrive here, I drove round to her house. I saw the scene, spoke to an officer.’
    ‘Who threatened Ms Holt?’
    ‘You know what happened here? We always hire extra security for a private view, because there are wealthy people who come here, park their expensive vehicles outside. On Wednesday, we knew there might be problems. We’d had the pictures up for two days and there were advertisements in the arts press. There’d been phone calls and discussions . . .’
    ‘Who with?’
    ‘I don’t know. Taryn spoke to most of them. There were some people from the church in St Jerome Street, some feminists. They saw the pictures, didn’t understand them, thought they were attacking women, demeaning them.’
    De Vries stands.
    ‘We’ve only seen the one in the window.’
    He walks away from the desk towards the nearest canvas. It is a domestic scene: a woman in a simple, old-fashioned kitchen, standing in front of a sink. She is naked; her black skin glows. On her ankle, there is a strange little box, a red light; De Vries thinks it looks like a control tag. Her ankles and her left wrist also bear signs of having been tied with rope or wire. There is something about her posture which is incredibly evocative: she is a prisoner.
    He moves to the next painting. A large black African woman, her head bowed, is tied to a wooden chair, her arms behind her back, ankles tied to the legs. Her nose is bloodied. In the foreground are the backs and buttocks of several broad black men, their skin stained and dusty. Once again, the artist has somehow achieved expression from within the static pose of the woman; she seems empty, almost dead.
    De Vries turns back towards the long black desk, but Van der Merwe is standing a few paces behind him.
    ‘Who painted this work?’
    ‘A Mozambican artist: Dazuluka Cele. She paints the exploitation of women in Africa.’
    ‘Exploitation by who?’
    Van der Merwe sniffs.
    ‘Men, obviously. Whether it is centuries of tribal bigotry or the murder of Reeva Steenkamp. It makes no difference. Black or white or coloured. It is the plague of Africa.’
    And, De Vries thinks, a rehearsed pitch.
    ‘But other people saw the art differently?’
    ‘They judged without knowing the story. I doubt any of them even know the artist is a woman.’
    ‘Does that make any difference?’
    Van der Merwe looks at De Vries, uncomprehending.
    ‘Of course. If these pictures were painted by a man, they would mean something completely different.’
    De Vries frowns.
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Tell me about Miss Holt’s role in this gallery. She was the owner, but was she involved in the art?’
    ‘Of course, yes . . .’Van der Merwe beckons De Vries to a giant spot-lit photograph of Taryn Holt, positioned in an alcove close to the gallery entrance.
    ‘You don’t know? Taryn was one of the biggest private benefactors of art and artists in the country. It was her passion.’
    De Vries studies the photograph. Taryn Holt is standing beside a brightly coloured canvas. She is wearing a plain full-length white linen dress, her long dark hair swept back from her forehead. She looks very beautiful; the lens loves her. She is smiling, yet there is a disconnect between the expression on her lips and that in her eyes. De Vries stares at her for a long while, discerns that it is the public smile of someone not happy. He wonders whether this is the emotion of the moment, or an enduring truth, poorly hidden.
    Van der Merwe says: ‘The ability of art to disseminate a message through the canvas. It is powerful. You can see . . .’
    For a moment De Vries thinks he is talking about the photograph of Taryn Holt; then he realizes that Van der Merwe is looking at the painting adjoining it.